“Scarves are a French woman’s secret,” she said touching her nose. “Anything can be fancied up with another scarf, and don’t be shy when it comes to colors. Lemon yellow in summer, and plum purple in winter, burnt orange in autumn…add some gold earrings, bright red lipstick, and you don’t need to spend a fortune. Just change those basics, and every season you’re en pointe. You have the jeans, the dress pants, blazers, and then you simply accessorize.”
“Yes,” I said quietly, unable to drag my eyes from the girl in the mirror. Who’d have thought clothes would give me such a boost? Perhaps this is why women were addicted to shopping. There wasn’t much of a selection in Ashford, and it had never appealed to me before. What Oceane had shown me had blown my mind, and thankfully not my budget.
“OK,” she said, scooping the clothes into her arms. “I’ll have her ring these up. Get dressed and I’ll take you to the next shop. Then you’ll really have to pick that jaw up off the floor.”
I laughed, and changed back into Sophie’s clothes, which seemed elegant in their own way, but not suited to me. How did French women know this stuff? I smiled once more at the eager eyed girl in the reflection before rushing out to pay.
“We’re going to the Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower. Under its shadow to be specific. When afternoon sunlight hits the tower it casts its zigzag pattern over Anouk’s shop.”
“An antique shop?” I asked. What did I want with antiques?
“Your outfits are sorted, but you need some va-va-voom. Not cheap supermarket jewelry, non. Not acceptable. You can find something there with history, something no one else has, see?”
“Right,” I said, glancing down at my cheap supermarket bangles, and instinctively covering them. “Is that where you bought your diamond from?”
“Oui. Now Anouk is rather…quirky. She believes each piece tells a story, she researches, knowing where it originated, who owned it, and how it came to her. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything. She’ll decide if she wants to sell to you, or not.”
The clack of Oceane’s high heels sounded as we hit a patch of cobblestones. The Eiffel Tower came into view, its magnificence as always taking my breath away. “Wait, what?” I asked. “She’ll decide if she wants to sell to me or not? Isn’t it a shop though?”
Oceane tutted as if I was dense. “It’s the French way, Sarah. Some shopkeepers are very particular about who their prized possessions go to. And Anouk is fussy, more so than most. She treasures her things, and will only part with them if you’re the right person. So don’t slouch, don’t fidget and for god’s sake don’t do that snort laugh thing you do when you’re nervous.”
I giggled. I was sure no one had noticed my unfortunate snort laugh because I’d covered it up with faux hiccoughing fits. Damn it! I couldn’t help but fidget. What if Anouk turned me away? Would that sully Oceane’s reputation with the owner? Nerves fluttered in my belly at such an unusual but utterly French predicament.
We came to the Little Antique Shop. It was pastel pink, and had a planter filled with peach roses giving off a rich, fruity scent. How were their flowers always so fragrant? A table out front housed a range of trinkets; small silver candelabra, an old typewriter, gilded photo frames. My fingers itched to pick them up and observe them closely, but I merely leaned over, gaze alighting on an old tea tin, full of fake pink peonies.
“Not too close,” Oceane hissed.
I stood ramrod straight, my eyes wide, fighting the urge to snort. What was this? How did she make any money if she wouldn’t part with her wares?
“She’s coming. Stop playing with your buttons.”
Golly. There were so many rules.
“Oceane,” Anouk greeted her in a sultry drawl. She was vivaciously dressed, forties style with a tight woolen dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt, accentuating her curves. Her blonde hair was a mass of big curls, her face heavily made-up with smoky eyeshadow and scarlet coated lips.
“Anouk, this is Sarah, an American book worshipper.”
I bit down on my lip, laughter was so close it tasted like sunshine.
“Oh, really?” She gave me a slow once-over, like she didn’t believe it.
“Yes,” Oceane said with a touch more authority in her voice. “She’s a lot like you. Doesn’t want books to go to any old person, they have to match, you see.”
Anouk raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, and continued her scrutiny. It was impossible not to squirm so I blanked my face, and thought about all the words starting with Z I knew – a technique I used when I was nervous in social situations. After all, nothing stupid can spill from my mouth when I’m deep in thought with the rhythm of words like zigzagging, zippered, erm, zucchini…
“Go!” Oceane shoved me in the ribs, and squinted at me.
“What?”
“Inside!” she whispered. “She said you could view the jewelry.”
“OK!” I tripped up the front step, which drew the ire of the diminutive French shopkeeper. With a sigh she continued to a glass counter. The shop had an aura about it, almost like I’d stepped back to nineteen-twenties Paris. Old lamp shades in muted pinks and beiges hung from hooks above, their tassels waving in the wind. On a section of wall old metal irons hung, their paints chipped and faded, exposing their flat metal underbellies. Ornate mirrors clung to walls, reflecting the contents of the shop, and my wide eyed stare. Overhead, brass pots and pans, dented with dimpled bottoms, shone fingers of gold to the floor.
“What are you searching for?” Anouk asked me, her cool stare making me bumble under my breath.
Before I could answer, Oceane spoke up. “She’s after a ring, something with a blue gem perhaps? Or a ruby. Some gold hoops, and maybe a pendant of some sort, small, delicate.”
Anouk whipped out a felt box which housed rows of antique rings. They were exquisite, from thin silver to chunky gold, and everything in between.
“This one,” Anouk said. “It suits the complexity in your eyes.”
Searching my face, she waited for a response. I nodded, enjoying the sheer solemnity of the situation, it was as though I was about to handle the crown jewels, or something priceless. With the utmost care, she took a gold ring from the display, its gem winking like a secret.
Oceane stiffened beside me. “Green?” she pointed to the gem a hint of doubt in her voice.
Anouk rolled her eyes heavenward. “It’s olive. Peridot aids matters of the heart.” She gazed at me like she could read my mind, and a shiver of comprehension ran through me. “You’ll see,” she said and flipped the display case closed, as if it was the only ring she would offer me.
“Try it,” she said, haughtily. “I bet it fits you perfectly.”
I slipped the dainty ring over my finger, and sure enough, it was like it was sized especially for me. On the soft flesh on my pinkie finger, it sparkled, like Oceane’s diamond, only much more subtly. I understood why Anouk was fastidious with her treasures, it was much like me with books. You wanted to be certain they found the right homes.
“That ring belonged to a woman who lived in Provence. She had an olive farm. Can you imagine the trees?”
I could envision their leaves fluttering in the wind, the breeze scented with lavender from fields beyond. This was certainly one shopping expedition I’d never forget. “Yes,” I said, casting my gaze back to my hand.
“And that’s why the ring is right for you. Come back,” she said, staring into my eyes like she was trying to read me. “You don’t need an introduction next time.”
Oceane nudged me, and tried to contain her smile. I paid swiftly, and when we were safely outside under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, laughter finally burbled out of me.
“What did she mean about an introduction?” I asked.
Oceane had her hands on her hips and was breathing hard like she’d just run a marathon. We’d been coiled tight in the little antique shop, and the tension was eking out of us as we stood far away enough to talk.
“Ther
e are a number of French businesses where you cannot shop unless you have an introduction from someone they trust, someone who is a regular customer of theirs. She has another room out the back with her most valuable possessions, but you won’t be allowed to go there, not for a while. It’s the way things are done. There’s a piano shop on the Left Bank, and he is the same. You could be a billionaire, and they won’t sell to you without the recommendation of a friend who they know well. It’s a way to preserve our heritage.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
I’d passed some kind of test though, and the thought made me stand a little straighter. Perhaps a small part of me was becoming French, if the likes of Anouk approved of me purchasing a ring in her beautiful little shop.
Chapter Ten
After the arrival of the travelers’ checks I felt light as air, and a tiny bit French. I was even mistaken for a native at the market stalls where I bought my fruit and vegetables – managing to have the whole transaction done in sleek French and I hadn’t stumbled once. Perhaps Paris was opening up to me… however, the shop was another issue altogether.
I had snatched a few more minutes before nine am to recheck the balance in the books again, while TJ replenished the front tables. It was peaceful in the shop and I was coming to love these mornings, standing at the counter near the front door sipping on the strong black coffee TJ had got into the habit of making for us. I wasn’t looking forward to having to call Sophie again and was interrupted from bashing my head on the table when a courier arrived, setting the doorbell pinging so loud I had to lean over to switch it off.
“Sarah Smith?” he asked.
“Oui?”
“Parcelle,” he said, and propped it on the bench before scuttling outside.
TJ and I looked at each other. We weren’t expecting a delivery today.
“Well open it!” TJ said jolting me into action.
Laughing I reached for the note. The handwriting was the same loops and swirls I’d come to love in the letters he wrote me and used to leave secreted around my house so I’d find them at various times when he was away. Something to stave off loneliness. Even though I felt a rush of pleasure at seeing his handwriting I couldn’t help the little voice in my head that was still worried about our lack of connection, with almost zero communication aside from snatched conversations here and there, and the odd email, or two.
Whatever the small box contained, I only hoped it wasn’t a gift to let me down softly that he wasn’t visiting Paris any time soon. He’d promised me two weeks in Paris, no work calls, no chasing stories. I ripped it open, to find a note on top.
Sarah Smith,
Would you allow me to steal you away for one magical day in Paris? Please wear these under something warm, and meet me out the front in an hour. Perhaps, organize someone to cover your shift tomorrow, I have a feeling you won’t get much sleep.
Love always,
Ridge.
I peeked under the pink tissue paper so TJ wouldn’t see, because I knew Ridge, and bet it was some kind of racy undergarment.
“What is it?” he asked craning his neck.
I blushed crimson and shut the box. “It’s…”
TJ donned a wide smile. “French panties, right?”
“Erm.” How the hell did he know that?
He shook his head. “Men. Step one foot in Paris, and it’s always about the underwear.”
I laughed, thrilled that I was a mere hour away from wrapping my arms around Ridge and French kissing him, clichés be damned! Finally, the story was done, and he was here. Would things be the same, after all this time? We’d never been apart for this long, and doubt crept up. Oddly, I was first-date nervous.
“What’re the chances of someone covering my shifts today and tomorrow?”
The dreaded paperwork would build up, but there was no way I was going to miss out on time with Ridge, somehow I had to make it all work. While he slept, I’d catch up.
“Sorry,” he said, averting his eyes. “I have to–”
I remembered Oceane’s warning, not to ask, or dither about it, to just tell people.
With a deep breath, my words fell out in a rush. “Gotta go, TJ. You’re in charge until tomorrow night. Don’t let me down.”
I bit back a smile at the shock registered on his face and flounced off. The only thing on my mind as I raced up the back stairs, was what outfit I’d wear that would match the lacy little surprise Ridge had sent me. And the joy of knowing he was out in the chilly Paris day somewhere close.
Thirty minutes later, dressed in another of my new outfits. I thanked the heavens for Oceane’s jaunt in the boutiques along the Champs-Elysees. With chic clothes on, I felt like I’d cast off a piece of me that was redundant, and replaced it with a brighter, more modern version of myself. My peridot gem blinked under the lights, and I wondered if Anouk from the Little Antique Shop was right, and it was a good omen for matters of the heart.
I managed to stop ogling the new me, and raced downstairs into the hive of the bookstore. TJ whistled appreciatively. “Who is this and what have you done with Sarah?”
I giggled, like a school girl. “I left her back on the Champs-Elysees…”
“Paris agrees with you. And…” he ducked behind the counter. “Another love note has appeared. He’s good, I’ll give him that.”
Anticipation sizzled so hard I thought I’d faint with excitement. He sure knew how to woo a girl.
The note read:
Sarah Smith,
Would you allow me to escort you for a cruise down the river Seine? The champagne is on ice, and the musicians are waiting…
Ridge.
A shriek escaped me. Calm down, Sarah. Do not start snorting. Throwing the note on the counter, I ran my hands down the length of my jeans, suddenly nervous because it had been so long since I’d seen Ridge, and what if things had changed?
Beatrice walked in, bringing the icy November winds with her. She pushed her weight on the door to close it, against the gust. “I need to chat,” she said.
“I’m just about to leave,” I said. “Can it wait?”
She frowned. “Not really. How long will you be?”
I grimaced, feeling guilty at the stung look she gave me. “I’ll cover the night shift tomorrow.”
She folded her arms. “Right. Well, it will have to wait then.” She stomped off, angrily. What the hell? The one time she actually wants to chat, and it was right then, the worst timing ever.
“What was all that about?” I asked TJ.
TJ shrugged. “Probably got a headache from all her eye rolling. Who knows, none of us hang out with Queen Bee.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling I should have heard her out. I was torn about whether to go find her and listen, or walk outside into the blustery day, but what if she wanted me to work tonight? Then I’d be stuck here once again, and the romantic day with Ridge wouldn’t happen.
“Go,” TJ said, watching me hesitate. “Before he sails down the Seine without you.”
I snatched the love letter, which TJ had managed to read upside down, and shoved it into my pocket. “I’m going! Argh!” My stomach flipped, and I fidgeted nervously. We’d had a year of these reunions, but this one felt different.
I strolled out into the cool day, winding my scarf as I went, searching for Ridge. There was a small part of me that was worried I wouldn’t recognize him, that when he kissed me or held me it wouldn’t feel the same. It had been so long since I had felt his touch and I wondered, had too much time passed? Then I saw him. Up against a metal railing, he stood, looking every inch the suave sophisticate he was. His face broke into a smile, and he walked towards me. My heart hammered at the sight of him in tight black jeans, a navy knit sweater, and that smooth smile of his. His black hair was mussed from the elements; I wanted to run a hand through it, simply to touch him, and know it wasn’t a dream. He was here!
He embraced me, his he-scent making me giddy, that particular Ridge smell,
woodsy, spicy, and utterly male, and sexy as hell. “Sarah Smith, is this a mirage?”
“I was just thinking the same!” I gazed up at him as he cupped my face, and finally pressed his lips to mine. The thought that this man was mine made me woozy with love for him.
“Your chariot awaits.” He pointed to a boat and sure enough a group of men holding violins and various instruments stood on the deck waiting to serenade us. His protestations of love were always over the top, and shamelessly romantic. “It’s a private cruise, so that I don’t have to fight anyone off when they stumble across you.”
I laughed. “Is that so?” He always made me feel like I was the only girl in the world, and that men would fall at their knees at the sight of me. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but I loved the rush it gave me.
“You are beautiful.” He kissed the top of my head, and then took my hand. “Almost too beautiful for words…Will you join me?”
I nodded. “I’d love to.” Any worries I had about us dissolved when he was by my side. Here he was making grand gestures, and it made the time I spent alone pale into insignificance. Two or three weeks of this would fill up my heart, until it came time for him to leave again.
Ridge helped me across the gangplank and it was hard to watch my footing when all I wanted to do was gawk at him. He’d changed since he’d been away, his face was softer somehow, his eyes bluer, or maybe it was the love-struck daze that hit me, blurring the edges of my mind. Even his hand in mine felt different, truer. I missed him so, and it was almost surreal, sitting together, in the front of the boat, him pulling a throw rug over us as we set sail along the Seine.
Gentle waves lapped at the hull as we made our way towards Ponts des Arts. Ridge wrapped his arms around me, as the musicians played Edith Piaf. Goosebumps broke out over my skin at romance of the songs, musical notes drifting lazily into the ether. It was like the French kept her memory alive, or maybe it was a tourist-pleasing cliché, but either way, the evocative songs tugged on my heart.
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 12
